emma ordell

“Jinu…?”

He glanced up, and noticed a slight blush covering her ear. “Hm?” 

“Does this massage have a happy ending?” 

His hands stilled—just for a beat. Every thought in his head short-circuited. 

Did she just…

“Do you want it to?” he asked, voice rougher than he intended. 

She tilted her head, just enough to catch him from the corner of one eye. A single, lazy prying open—and that curve of her mouth… 

Shy. 

Mischievous.

Utterly fatal. 

God, he almost died right then and there. 

That look, that stubborn little smirk peeking out from all her softness—it was unfair. 

He’d just spent the last half hour coaxing every ounce of tension out of her, proud of himself for taking the route of respectful human instead of mean demon for once, for keeping his hands disciplined, steady, reverent. And now she had the audacity to toss that into the air like a lit match? 

He couldn’t be prouder. 

His chest squeezed. Because she wasn’t just teasing him mindlessly. No—she was comfortable. Comfortable enough to flirt. Comfortable enough to ask, even during this—something that’d seemed so scary just a little while ago. 

It wrecked him. 

But of course, he wouldn’t show that. 

His pulse kicked hard, but his smirk found its way back, slow and dangerous. He leaned down until his lips brushed the shell of her ear, letting his hands rest heavy on her hips. 

“Well, in that case, consider me… very committed to customer satisfaction,” he purred, voice low to hide just how undone she already had him. 

“Oh? How committed?” she snickered, eyes sparkling now, alive. 

He drew a deliberate inhale, breathing through the heat that rushed low. God, this girl. She had no idea what she did to him—how just a look could tear through four centuries of discipline. 

He bent closer, one hand coming to brace his weight above her head, the other flexing against her hip like he couldn’t hold back—which wasn’t far from the truth. 

“Committed enough,” he murmured, nuzzling the hair from her neck, “to keep you flat on this bed until the only ache left in you is the one I put there.”

Her breath caught, and he grinned against her skin, all brakes off. 

Because if his girl wanted a happy ending—he was going to make sure she would be ruined with one. 

So he didn’t hesitate to accommodate her wishes. He climbed over her, straddling across her thighs, weight warm, steady. 

She grew restless almost immediately—always did when the mood shifted like this, impatient—but he smoothed a hand up her spine, slow and heavy, urging her to stay put. 

His palm planted firm by her neck, squeezing once, and satisfaction rippled through him when he felt the muscles there were loose, pliant, exactly as he’d intended for them to be. 

“Let me work, pretty,” he purred. “Your session isn’t over yet.” 

She whined into the towel, but the sound melted into submission, her body softening under his hold. 

“Good girl,” he praised, and his other hand slid down her waist, claiming more of her with every inch. “Just take it.” 

His touch traced lower, deliberate. His grip on her neck flexed just enough to remind her he had her, that she wasn’t going anywhere, while his other hand slipped beneath her body. Fingers dragged along the warm skin of her abdomen until they found the hem of her sweatpants.

He hummed, pleased, thumb stroking the band slowly. “These are in the way for the next part of your treatment,” he murmured, voice all gravel and promise. “Tell me I can take them off.” 

“Yes, do it,” she squirmed beneath him. 

He leaned down, mouth brushing her ear, grip steady on her neck. “What do we say?” 

She shuddered at the proximity, nudging her head faintly against his. “Please. Take them off, please.” 

Oh, fuck—he almost shuddered himself. Loved it when she begged. Loved it when she wanted shamelessly. 

Instead of giving himself away, he slid his hand inside her pants, lower until his fingers pressed against the damp spot blooming through her underwear. 

Fuck. Soaked already. 

“You really love my hands, huh?” he snickered, circling her clit through the fabric with slow, lazy precision—just enough to pull soft whimpers from her throat. 

“D-don’t be mean,” she muttered, but the crack in her voice betrayed her. 

“Sorry, baby,” he chuckled, nuzzling into her hair, breathing deep. “Couldn’t help it.” 

God, her scent—he’d never get enough. Even with oil lingering on her skin and candles perfuming the air, hers cut straight through. Lilies, rainwater—clean, heady, fucking irresistible. 

He rutted closer without meaning to, grinding the aching length of himself against the curve of her hips—pressing harder on her clit in the process. 

She gasped, arching into him, and he almost lost his mind, his grip on her neck tightening more to steady himself than her. 

“I really do, though…” she panted, tilting her head just enough to catch him from the corner of her eye. “I really love your hands.”

Oh God. 

Her parted lips. The flush on her cheeks. Her fingers digging into the sheets for purchase. 

And he still couldn’t believe it. Still got stunned at the sight of her every damn time. 

She was so beautiful, so tempting, so intoxicating he swore she must’ve been fabricated from his wildest fantasies. Yet here she was—alive, real, perfect in every way, and thoroughly his. 

A low, helpless groan tore from his chest, impossible to hold back. He bent down to her again, pressing his lips to the heat of the blush along her cheekbone. 

“That so?” he murmured, his hand sliding her underwear to the side, dipping lower until he found her entrance. Open and tight and aching for him. 

Him. Him, him him. And he still couldn’t believe it. 

“Tell me more,” he smirked, easing a finger inside while his palm ground against her clit, leaving nothing unattended. 

She gasped, walls clenching tight around him, begging for more. 

“Come on, talk to me, gorgeous,” he coaxed, curling just right against her sweet spot. His other hand shifted from her neck to her throat, bracing his weight on his elbow so he could press his chest flush against her back, never close enough. “What do you love about them?” 

Her mouth parted, trying for words, but his finger curled just as she was about to speak and all that came out was a broken gasp. 

“Jinu—” she tried again, but he pressed deeper, grinding his hips down against the swell of her body, his cock dragging along her curves as his hand at her throat cradled carefully, controlled. 

She whined, desperate, and he couldn’t stop the grin that curved against her temple. 

“Go on,” he drawled, voice honeyed sin. “Tell me.” 

“I—I love—”

Another curl, cruelly precise against her sweet spot, had her cutting off with a strangled moan, clutching at the sheets like she could anchor herself. 

“Mm. Better,” he praised, lips brushing her hairline, “but I think you can do prettier than that.” 

She shuddered beneath him, tried again, “I love how they—ahh—” her voice cracked when his palm rolled tighter over her clit, and she keened, bucking against his touch. 

He chuckled low, rutting forward once more so she felt just how hard he was. “Come on, princess. You were so eager to say it a minute ago. Don’t tell me these hands already made you forget your words?” 

She just sobbed, arching her back to roll against him. 

He worked her steady, relentless, curling, pressing, grinding his hand against her until she was writhing under him, every gasp louder than the last. And when her body tensed, the kind of tension he knew by now, the kind that meant she was about to break— 

He stopped. 

Her whole form jolted with the denial, but he held her still with his weight. “N-no—!” she sobbed, hips bucking uselessly against his palm. 

His smirk cut sharp into her skin. “M-m. Not yet, baby. You know what I want.” 

Her hands twisted in the sheets, desperate as her voice barely held. “I—I love… I love how you never keep them off me when we’re alone—” 

That would literally be impossible.

“Good,” he murmured, coaxing her through it. “More.” 

Her breath stuttered, tears pricking at the corner of her lashes. “I love—fuck—I love how good you are with them—how deep your fingers—reach,”

Oh fuck. 

His whole body almost lurched with the confession, digit twitching inside her without permission, cock aching, grinding harder against her. 

“Wasn’t so hard, was it?” But his voice cracked, wrecked. 

He was this close to losing his fucking mind. 

He worked another finger inside her, stretching, filling exactly the way she wanted. He pressed as deep as the angle allowed, palm grinding firm against her clit, refusing to leave any part of her untouched. 

“Like that?” he murmured against her ear. 

Her cry hitched into a scream as he finally gave her what she needed, walls seizing tight around him. She came almost instantly, writhing helplessly under his weight while he worked her through it. 

Her noises tore through him, raw and beautiful. He kept the pressure steady, curling deep until every spasm had run its course. 

“Fucking perfect, baby,” he breathed, voice frayed with awe. “My good girl, just like that.” 

Her gasps grew messier, every sound breaking open against the pillow. He pressed kisses to her temple, her jaw, her damp hairline, the corner of her mouth, every inch he could reach as she came down. 

“So pretty when you fall apart for me,” he murmured, chest swelling, torn between reverence and ruin. He couldn’t believe that the beautiful being beneath him was his. 

Her noises tipped higher, desperate little whimpers she didn’t even know she made, and his cock twitched violently at it. “Fuck, Rumi… You have no idea what you do to me,” he groaned, nearly undone just by the music of her wreckage. 

She was turning boneless slowly, so pliant under his weight, and his hand stilled. He withdrew slowly, smirk positively feral, because the angle hadn’t let him go as deep as she apparently loved. 

“Turn around,” he rasped. “You know these hands can make it better than that.” 

She was quick to oblige—or at least she tried to. Palms planted on the mattress, eager for more, but her elbows gave way under her trembling body. 

So fucking cute. 

He leaned closer again, brushing damp bangs back from her face, caressing her hair like she was something fragile and priceless all at once. 

“That good, huh?” he snickered softly, lips brushing her temple. 

She only whined in answer, throat too raw, body still twitching with aftershocks. 

His chest ached with it. God, she was so far gone. And so utterly, devastatingly his. 

“Here, let me help.” His voice gentled, coaxing as he slid his arm beneath her, guiding her carefully. She followed, pliant, until he laid her flat against the pillows, sitting back to turn her hips properly. 

And then he froze. 

Because fuck. 

Long violet strands spilled like silk over the pillows, falling off the side of the bed, catching the low flicker of candlelight. Her eyes were glazed, glassy and hooded, lips parted around shaky breaths she couldn’t catch. The flush across her skin had bloomed down her throat, all the way to the delicate curve of her sternum. 

Her breasts—perfect, arching, rising with each ragged inhale—drew his gaze like a prayer answered. His mouth actually watered at the sight of them. 

And then he saw her hands—trembling, fumbling at the waistband of her sweatpants, clumsy in her desperation. Trying to bare herself, trying to get them off, because she wanted him closer. She wanted more. Of this. Of him. 

Unbelievable. 

His cock throbbed at the sight, at the fact that this—this ethereal, devastating girl—was undone beneath him, begging for him. Him 

The death of me. 

He should’ve helped her. He really should have—especially when she was being so fucking good about it, trembling fingers tugging at her pants like the sweetest plea. 

But, oh God—they were too far apart. 

He had to be closer. He had to—

He had to do something. 

Right now. 

His palms braced at her knees, and without ceremony he spread them, dragging her down the bed until their thighs bumped into each other. 

She gasped, arms flailing above her head for purchase, but the sound was smothered instantly—his mouth crashing to hers, hard, deep, starving. 

And oh, she opened for him immediately. Of course she did. Legs climbing higher around his hips, arms wrapping tight around his torso, kissing him back with the same hunger. Like she was aching for him just as badly as he was for her. 

Unbelievable. 

Her fingers clawed at his sweater, fisting the fabric, tugging it up with desperation that made his cock hurt with need. He knew what she wanted. 

Never close enough. 

He parted just long enough to rip it over his head, flinging it aside, before crashing back down into her reach—her mouth, her warmth, her everything. His tongue pushed past her lips immediately, claiming, helpless against the urge to taste her. 

Her moan broke into a sob when his hand slid beneath her, dragging her flush against him. 

Skin to skin. Heat to heat. Heart to heart. 

The sound gutted him. Something so simple—and it still shattered her every time. It didn’t surprise him, she’d neglected herself contact like this her whole life, neglected the fact that she craved it. 

He couldn’t be happier to give it to her. Couldn’t be prouder that she finally, finally, allowed her what she’d been missing all these years. 

Then she arched, legs tightening around him, grinding her core along his aching length. 

Knew exactly how to set him off now. 

Fuck. 

He answered without thought, a sharp rut that ground him against her exactly where she needed him. Her gasp tore through the room, head tipping back—throat exposed, stunning violet patterns on full display, marks she no longer hid from him. 

His lips were on them instantly. Tracing, kissing, claiming. And his hips pressed harder, heavier, helplessly grinding against her like a man possessed. 

But he had to move lower. Had to. 

So his mouth trailed down, lingering kisses down the long line of her throat, mapping every curve of her collarbones until he reached them. 

Her perfect breasts. 

He groaned as he took her in, greedy hands sliding up to cup the weight of them. One thumb circled slowly, deliberately over her peak while his mouth claimed the other—tongue flicking before pulling the nipple into his mouth. 

Rumi arched instantly, a gasp breaking free, her hands fisting in the sheets like she couldn’t bear the intensity. 

He didn’t let up. Not for a second. His teeth grazed, tongue soothed, mouth working while his other hand pinched and rolled her second peak between his fingers, knowing exactly how sensitive she was there. 

She writhed beneath him, but he pinned her down with the weight of his body, his free arm braced strong so she couldn’t twist away even if she wanted to. 

Not that she did. 

Her sharp, stuttered breaths told him everything he needed to know—how good it felt, how overwhelming it was, how much she loved it. 

And fuck, her reaction was the opposite of a deterrent. 

If anything, it was gasoline. 

Her breasts had always been sensitive—he didn’t need a reason to crave them but God, watching her come undone under his mouth and hands like this? Hearing the way she keened his name with that otherworldly voice even as it cracked? 

It was addictive. 

He never wanted to stop. 

But then he felt it—her hips grinding helplessly against his abdomen, searching, begging. And he knew another place needed him more. 

So he worked even lower. 

His mouth traced the tight plane of her stomach, tasting the shiver of her skin with every slow drag of his lips. One hand slid up over the sheets—knowing she needed reassurance, knowing she needed him closer, knowing she needed something to hold onto.

Just like every time, she braided their fingers quickly, grateful, digging her nails into his skin. He squeezed once, twice. 

I’m here. 

He sank to his knees on the floor with how far down he’d pulled her on the mattress. 

From there, the view was lethal. 

He hooked a finger under the hem of her sweatpants and looked up at her through his lashes. 

She was already staring at him, pupils blown, like she’d been waiting for this exact moment. 

He smirked—menace wrapped in reverence. “Off?” 

She groaned, throwing her head back against the sheets, impatient hand freeing from his, both coming down to tug at her waistband. “Off. Off, off, off—” she whined, a sound that went straight to his cock. 

And he was quick to give her what she wanted. 

He dragged her further to the edge of the bed, and then her sweatpants and underwear joined his discarded sweater on the floor. 

And oh… 

Oh God—

He actually choked. 

So pretty. So pink. So utterly glistening in the candlelight that flickered across her skin. 

“Oh, Rumi…” he breathed, head dropping to rest against her inner thigh, eyes fixed between her legs. 

But even then he gave her what she needed—what he needed to stay steady too at this point—one hand climbing up to meet hers that was already reaching for him. She sniffled with relief as their fingers braided once more. 

But his eyes couldn’t leave her heat—utterly entranced by the view. 

“Fuck,” his voice cracked—actually cracked—as he nuzzled into the plush skin of her thigh, breathing deep, breathing through it. 

Because she was dripping for him. 

“You’re a mess, baby,” he almost whimpered, absolutely drunk just from the sight of her. His thumb brushed slowly over the skin of her hand while he lifted one of her legs onto his shoulder, adjusting her like she was already his favourite meal. 

Which she was.

Then his tone went lower, coaxing, almost begging. “Say you want me to clean you up.” 

Her leg flexed, dragging against his back, trying to pull him closer. “Please, please—I want your mouth. Please, Jinu—” 

He didn’t waste a fucking second. 

And the first taste had him gone. Always did. 

Sweet, sharp, addictive—like her body had been crafted to undo him and only him. 

He groaned low into her, hand gripping hers tighter, the other digging into her thigh as if to ground himself, to keep from devouring her whole in one reckless gulp. 

His tongue swept slow at first, deliberate, savoring every trembling note she gave him. 

And fuck, did she give him plenty. 

Her hips twitched. A gasp splintered from her chest, sharp and helpless. “J-Jinu—”

He smirked against her, lips latching onto her clit just to hear that sound again, just to feel her thighs jolt around his ears again. “That’s it, gorgeous,” he coaxed, voice muffled but hot against her. “Give it to me. Let me hear you.” 

She sobbed, head tossing side to side on the mattress, hand straining against the sheets, the other digging crescents into his skin.  

He slid his free hand from her thigh to her stomach, forearm bracing her open, palm weighing down on her abdomen, pressing her flat when she tried to writhe away from the intensity. 

“Stay still,” he ordered, tongue circling tighter, teasing. “Let me work.” 

Her body obeyed before her mouth could argue, every muscle shaking but every ounce of her weight surrendering into the bed. 

God, she was unreal. 

He flattened his tongue, dragging it slow from her entrance up to her clit, then back down again, lapping at the mess he’d already coaxed out of her.

His cock throbbed painfully against his sweats, but he didn’t care. He’d burn before he stopped giving her what she needed. 

Her taste. Her sounds. The way she broke open for him so completely—he swore he could live off of it. 

He was an immortal demon, practically nothing was essential for his survival—but he was convinced this was. 

“Stay open,” he murmured, and when she squeezed his hand once as an answer his palm on her stomach moved lower. 

He slid a finger in without warning, slow but deep, curling just at the right angle until she cried out. Her walls clamped around him, pulling, needy, like her body was trying to keep him there forever. 

“Fuck, baby…” he groaned, his mouth finding her clit again as he pumped the finger, curling in rhythm. “You’re gonna kill me.” 

“D-don’t stop,” she pleaded, voice already cracking, and he almost laughed. 

“As if I could.” 

He added another finger, stretching her out with slow thrusts that matched the pace of his tongue. Every whimper, every desperate gasp, he devoured as if he’d been starving for centuries. 

And when she arched up, thighs trembling around his head, he moved their laced hands to her abdomen, pressing his palm there, holding her down as he curled his fingers wickedly. 

“That spot? Hm? Right here, princess?” 

She screamed, actually screamed—and he fucking smiled against her clit, suckling harder, relentless now. 

Her reactions, her scent, her voice—it was possession in every sense. He’d never let another being touch her like this, never let anyone else hear the way she cried for him. 

“Perfect, baby,” he praised between strokes of his tongue, voice hoarse, wrecked. “So good for me. God, you’re everything—” 

Her hand left the sheets, flying to his hair, tugging, urging, trying to pull him closer when he was already as close as he could get—a sign he knew well now. 

She was also sobbing, body arching, walls fluttering tight around his fingers, her thighs quivering against his shoulders. 

He knew that sound, too. That pitch in her cries. 

She was right there. 

And he didn’t tease this time—couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. 

He gave her what she needed instead, and then some. 

His fingers pushed deeper, like she’d just told him she loved, his tongue never leaving her clit, drawing her over the edge like he craved her release just as much as she did. 

Which was nothing but the truth. 

Her whole body seized, way harder than last time, back arching clean off the bed as a cry tore out of her throat—raw, broken, fucking stunning. 

She clenched down so tight around his fingers he swore his hand might snap in half, her thighs closing around his head like she intended to crush it. 

He did not mind. 

Would love to meet his end between her legs. 

And he still didn’t let up. 

He rode her through it, tongue flicking, fingers curling with merciless devotion, dragging her high out until she was gasping, sobbing, shuddering apart for him. 

Only when she started to collapse, muscles giving out, did he finally ease—slowing his hand, softening his tongue. He kissed the swollen bud gently, carefully, even as she whimpered from the oversensitivity. 

“Good girl,” he rasped against her, lips brushing the soaked skin of her inner thigh. “That was fucking beautiful.” 

Her hips twitched weakly, following his mouth despite herself, thighs falling wider like she couldn’t hold it together anymore. He drank in the sight, the sound, the smell of her—utterly wrecked, trembling, flushed and glowing in the candlelight. 

God, she was a vision. 

He slipped his fingers free at last, coaxing one final clench before pulling them out, drenched, glistening. He couldn’t help it—with a groan he took them into his mouth, revelling in the taste of her like he hadn't just had his tongue buried in the source seconds ago. 

And then he bent forward, brushing his lips over her knuckles before letting them trace her hipbone, kissing the tremor out of her skin as her breathing stuttered and slowed. 

“So perfect,” he murmured, nosing into her stomach. “So fucking perfect for me.”

Her chest was still heaving, eyes wet when she finally blinked down at him. Her lips parted, but no words came—just a shaky exhale, a soft little whimper that splintered his chest open all over again. 

And then he felt it—a faint nudge against his thigh, close to where he ached most. 

He glanced down. 

Her foot. Searching for him, clumsy and fumbling but deliberate, toes brushing the fabric stretched tight over his length. 

His gaze shot back up. 

And there she was—his girl, flushed and glistening, glassy eyes fixed on his like he was the only thing she could see. 

“Want you,” she whispered, voice almost gone, but the plea was undeniable. 

God, he almost died. 

She always wanted him. No matter how many times she’d shattered on his hands, on his mouth, no matter how many ways he’d wrung her empty—she always needed him too. Him inside her. Him filling her. Him, him, him. 

Like she too felt like they were never close enough. 

It ruined him. 

“You have me,” he whispered back, a smile tugging helplessly at his mouth as he pressed one last kiss just above where she craved him. Then he rose to his feet, swallowing hard against the violent throb of need clawing through him. 

But oh—the sight from above nearly levelled him. This impossible, breathtaking woman sprawled open in candlelight, strands of violet hair tangled over white sheets, same colour tracing beautiful marks on her skin, lips parted, flushed from chest to her ears like sin itself had kissed her raw. 

And then—God help him—she pushed herself up onto one elbow. 

One trembling hand reached for him, fingers hooking the waistband of his sweats. 

“L-let me—” 

“Ah ah,” he cut in gently, though his pulse roared loud in his ears. His hand caught hers, cradling it with more care than he felt capable of. “You’re the one getting treated here, baby.” 

Her eyes flicked up, wide and pleading. She wanted to give back—of course she did. Always selfless, always desperate to return what he gave her. 

Temptation herself stared him right in the eye. He wanted it, God, he wanted whatever she offered him—but more than that, he needed to be inside of her. Preferably yesterday. Or the day before that, even. 

So he smiled, gently, reaching out to graze his knuckles along her cheekbone. Then—

“On your stomach,” he whispered, smile turning into a smirk at the way her breath caught. “This is a massage, after all.”

She moved immediately. 

Of course she did—shy, yes, but more than that she was eager. Always so eager for him. 

She shifted without protest, the motion a little clumsy, a little too quick, and he swore his heart cracked at the sight. His good girl, so desperate to do what he asked, even when her hands trembled in the sheets. 

“Up a little more,” he murmured, voice low and coaxing. 

Her legs kicked, scrambling to push herself higher on the bed like she couldn’t get there fast enough. He nearly groaned at her fervour, at how she allowed herself to be this with him, that she allowed herself to want him this much. 

God, he adored her. 

He shoved his sweatpants down in one go, underwear with them, finally freeing the ache that had been punishing him all night. The sound he made at the relief was guttural, unguarded, eyes tracking her like prey while she moved higher up on the bed. That body of hers trembling but so agile, always. 

He couldn’t even let her settle fully, he followed her down, knees sliding into place on either side of her thighs. 

Her breath hitched, but he didn’t give her time to react—one hand grounding against her back, bringing her down to her stomach, the other braced against the mattress above her head. 

And then—fuck. 

He had her laid out under him, soft and squirming, whimpering and writhing with impatience, her body moving like it couldn’t not reach for him even without words. 

“Shh, easy,” he soothed, lips brushing her temple, palm smoothing long and slow down the curve of her spine until she melted beneath it. “That’s it, baby. You’re okay.” 

He leaned closer, pressed his mouth to her shoulder, letting his chest expand against her back as he breathed her in, soothing even as his length twitched heavy against her. 

And that did it. 

Her whimper broke soft on the sheets, hips shifting restlessly to reach for him. 

He smiled against her hair, voice going wrecked and reverent all at once. “God, Rumi… you have no idea what you do to me.” 

And he couldn’t wait any longer. Not when she answered by arching against him, not when every impatient movement had his cock throbbing, demanding. 

His hand left her back only long enough to nudge her thighs open slightly, easing the weight of him lower until he slotted perfectly against her entrance. He groaned, forehead dropping to her shoulder as his length dragged heavy along her folds, slick from her already. 

“Fuck, baby…” his voice broke, undone. “So wet for me. You always are, aren’t you?” 

“Just for you,” she whimpered, rocking back into him. “N-no one else.”

And he died. 

How could she say stuff like that and expect him to survive? Maybe she was still trying to kill him, after all. 

A sound escaped him, something between a groan and a chuckle as he tried to pace himself, but he’d already pressed closer, dragging the length of him hard against her heat. But he slipped instead of driving home, that demanded precision. 

She’d still felt it, how his tip had prodded where she wanted him, stretched at her tight entrance before he could stop himself—and she sobbed at the denial. 

“Patience,” he soothed, though his own was fraying by the second. His hand dipped lower, sliding two fingers into her, spreading them, watching for every reaction, making sure she was relaxed enough from her last high and fuck—she was. She moaned at the stretch, but it wasn’t enough now. He knew that. 

So he lined himself up with one hand, the other braiding with hers onto the mattress, grounding her. “Breathe properly for me,” he murmured against her nape. 

He waited until she exhaled, trembling but real, before he pushed in. 

God. 

It didn’t matter that he’d had sex previously. It didn’t matter that they practically did this every other day, now. It didn’t matter that he thought about this almost constantly. 

Every time was like his first. Like he’d never done it before. Like he was experiencing the only heaven he’d ever get. 

He groaned openly at the way her walls clutched around the first inch, hot and tight and fucking perfect. 

Her gasp was like music to his ears, her fist twisting in the sheets, squeezing his fingers, but she didn’t pull away. She pushed back, even through the stretch, like she couldn’t stand any space between them whatsoever. 

“Just like that, princess. You did well,” he breathed, and kept going. 

He pushed in slowly. Stretching her inch by inch, stopping only when her gasp cracked into a sob—not in pain, but overwhelmed. 

“There,” he whispered, voice sharp with restraint, kissing along her shoulder blade as he let her breathe. “Take all the time you need.” 

But she always adjusted quickly. Always grew impatient fast. Didn’t want to wait, always wanted more—no matter how many times he’d taken her apart leading up to it, no matter how overstimulated or raw she was. Like her body trusted him completely, knew he wouldn’t push her past any limit—even the ones she herself had no idea were there. 

So when her fingers squeezed his, when her back arched closer, when her lips parted on an urgent whine he knew all too well by now—he still took it slow.

Agonizingly slow. 

He listened to every sound, felt every twitch, noticed every hitch of her breath and pressed deeper only when her body opened for him—even when her mouth begged for more right now. He would never give more than she could handle. 

When he finally bottomed out, chest flush against her back, he had to stop. Just for a second. For her, but even more so for himself. He had to breathe. He had to keep himself from losing it all at once. 

God, she felt unreal. He almost wanted to apologize for being inside her at all—like maybe he didn’t deserve it. 

But then she shifted under him, a needy little roll of her hips, shaking, every muscle trembling, but it wasn’t pain. 

And he knew. He knew her now—this was need. She needed him, all of him, just as bad as he needed her. He felt it in the way her walls fluttered, in the desperate noises that kept spilling from her throat. 

He pressed his lips to her cheek, inhaling like she was oxygen, kissing a stray tear from the corner of her eye. “That’s it, baby. Took me so well… God, you always do.” 

She could only nod, nudging her head against him, sobbing out a yes that broke his last threads of control. 

He rocked forward once, deep, letting her feel just how fully he filled her. His mouth stayed by her ear, voice a growl of reverence, circling back to her actual attempted murder from before: 

“Mine. Every inch of you.”

She broke. Sobbing at the claim, arching closer, closer. 

“Yes—” her voice cracked, but she promised anyway. “Oh god. Yes, Jinu—yes—all of me.” 

Yeah. 

She knew where she belonged now. More importantly—she wanted to belong there. 

And he couldn’t be happier to be that place for her. 

His chest swelled with it. Hurt with all those things he had yet to say, had yet to even find the language for—he’d never been meant to speak it, but… he’d never been meant to be capable of this much either. 

So he spoke the only way he knew how, the language she’d unearthed in him over the last couple of weeks: 

He pulled her closer. 

One arm wrapping around her torso, leaning his weight into her back while pressing her to him. 

And oh—she sighed, content, nuzzling against his cheek, squeezing their laced hands, her free one coming to cradle his neck. 

God. 

If only there was a way for him to crawl inside her ribcage and live there. 

He rolled his hips again, helpless, slower this time, deliberately stretching deeper. The kind of thrust that made her whimper and squirm because she couldn’t escape the fullness of it, couldn’t do anything but take it. 

“My good girl,” he finally answered her, voice hushed, reverent—approving of her submission. “So good. Always so good for me.”

Her answer was a broken moan, muffled by the sheets, and he smiled, brushing her hair back from her damp cheek just to hear it better. 

“That’s it. Let me hear you. Don’t hold back, baby—your sounds are perfect. Every damn one.”

He started moving slowly. Deep, steady strokes that wrung soft cries from her throat with every push. His chest stayed pressed to her back as he let the mattress support her weight again, hand sliding to her waist, holding her right there as he moved inside her like he had all the time in the world. 

He kissed the nape of her neck, her shoulder blade, anywhere he could reach. “My girl, my Rumi,” he sighed against her skin, utterly lost in her. “You’re everything—all I want. Never letting you go.” 

God, the way her body clenched at that, how her breath hitched like he’d reached something deeper than her walls—maybe even her ribcage—it nearly undid him. 

And then she answered: 

“I’ll… n-never let you, either.”

Just a whisper. 

But so much more than that. 

He stilled inside her—caught off guard, because he still couldn’t believe it. 

And she said it again. 

Glancing at him through wet lashes, cheek pressed to the sheets. “I’ll never let you let me go.” 

The small smile that pulled at her lips made his heart ache. 

“Ever,” she added, blushing, like she hadn’t already murdered him in cold blood. 

Fuck. 

His forehead dropped to her shoulder. “God, Rumi,” he sighed, squeezing her hand like a lifeline. “You’re gonna be the death of me.” 

She hummed, and squeezed back. 

That did it. 

She was stretched enough, and he had to be closer. 

So his hand moved from her waist to her hip, sitting back, only far enough to get the angle right—the one he knew would undo her most. He shifted her hip just slightly, allowing him deeper, pressing heavy against the spot that always shattered her—and him too. 

Her gasp was instant, high and raw, and he held still for her, buried deep, letting her adjust. 

But then she came up slightly, and turned her head, eyes seeking him out. 

She always did when he was behind her, but this time—God, this time—his chest swelled until he thought it might actually burst. 

The massage had worked. 

She wasn’t straining, wasn’t wincing. 

She looked at him freely. 

“Look at you,” he breathed, hand leaving her hip to cradle her cheek, steady her as she turned further. “Turning back without a problem. That’s better, right?” 

Her moan was answer enough, pupils blown wide, and then—fuck—then she parted her lips, took his thumb between them. She arched into him like she was showing him, proving it, saying yes. Look at me. Look at how much better it is. 

He could’ve cried at the sight. 

“That’s perfect, baby,” he shuddered, brushing his face against hers, voice cracking with adoration. “So proud of you.” 

Her moan vibrated against his thumb, wrecking him worse, until he almost got jealous. So he replaced it with his tongue, swallowing the sound, drinking it down like it was what kept him alive. 

And then he couldn’t hold back anymore. 

His hand resettled on her hip, keeping her right where he needed her. He moved—slow, heavy, devastating thrusts that dragged every inch of him along her walls, as deep as she allowed. Each push wrung louder cries from her, her body bowing, breaking under the weight of it. 

Her insides clutched at him, fluttering, and he knew that feeling—she was close. 

His own body screamed for release, his cock throbbing, every instinct begging him to let go with her. 

Shit, he could’ve climaxed just at the sight of her—cheeks flushed, lips parted around helpless moans, eyes rolling back as she clutched his hand like a lifeline. 

But if there was one thing four centuries had taught him, it was restraint. And he would hold on, always, if it meant any moment he was given with her would last longer. 

“Come on, baby,” he coaxed, voice rough in her ear as he pressed deep, grinding right where he knew she needed. “Give it to me. I’ve got you.” 

She sobbed, hips canting back against him, and that was it—her body snapped tight around his length, trembling violently as her high tore through her. 

“Good girl,” he groaned, shuddering as her walls squeezed him like they’d never let him go. He braced his weight above her head, his other hand sliding to the small of her back, holding her down, revelling in the spasm he felt there. “That’s it—fuck, that’s it. Stunning.” 

She cried out again, raw and desperate, legs quivering beneath him, but he kept her steady, kissing her temple, murmuring praise against her skin. 

He stayed still while she came down, every muscle in him taut. His cock was still buried deep inside her, pulsing painfully, begging for release, but he held on—God, he held on for dear life—even when her fluttering walls were practically trying to milk him. 

Instead he stroked his hand along the curve of her spine, grounding, letting her breathe, letting her feel him there with her. 

It wasn’t long until her body gave way again. The tremor of her walls shifted from aftershocks to anticipation—sucking him deeper, softening in a silent plea. Her finger squeezed him, back arching slightly under his palm, asking without words. 

He grinned against her damp hair, knew exactly what his girl wanted. 

He rolled his hips once, slow and testing, stretching her open again. 

She gasped, head jerking back. 

“Jinu—”

“Right here,” he promised, hand sliding to cradle her cheek. 

“S’ too much,” she sniffled, leaning into his touch. 

His smirk curved by her hairline, confident in a way only a man completely drunk on her could be. 

He knew her body. Knew it wasn’t too much—she was just shy, overwhelmed, but not afraid. 

So he pressed a little deeper, stretched a little more, voice low and tender. 

“You sure?” 

Her gasp cracked on a moan, nudging her head against his. 

“You keep pulling me back in,” he purred, teeth grazing her ear. “You’re even following me, princess.” 

To prove his point, he slid back slowly, almost pulling out—only for her hips to arch, chasing him, walls closing around the inch he let her keep like she missed him even though he wasn’t even gone. 

“Oh God,” she sobbed despite herself, forehead dropping to the mattress. “Don’t stop.” 

“Never,” he promised, palm moving from her cheek to her nape, holding her steady as he repositioned them slightly—and then he drove back in, hard, bottoming out. 

She screamed, the sound torn from her throat, and of course he didn’t stop. 

He found his rhythm, precise and deep, slamming into the spot that always broke her, each thrust a deliberate drag along her sweet spot. 

“Fuck!” she cried, voice splintering. “Please—right there, Jinu, I—”

Words dissolved into gasps. She was gone, lost, a mess of sound and trembling limbs under him. 

And he drank it in. 

This was exactly how he wanted her—unguarded, honest, every secret stripped away. 

In here, with him, she didn’t have to hold onto anything. She could just… let go.

Soon he felt her start to climb again—that trembling edge in her body, the tiny, helpless noises she couldn’t hold back. 

So he came closer, fucked her slower, pushed deeper as he held her steady. 

And she was barely holding on—

Chest heaving, body trembling, hips still meeting every thrust like she needed him to ruin her all over again.

But suddenly she stiffened, breath stuttering. “W-wait,” she slurred, voice high and breathless. “It’s…it feels too—too good.” 

He grinned. 

Euphoric. 

Because he knew this language by heart. 

Leaning down, he licked a line of drool from her chin to the corner of her mouth, then snapped his hips a little harder, deeper, like her unravelling only spurred him on. 

“That’s the point,” he chuckled against her cheek, voice thick with awe. 

“I don’t think—” A gasp ripped through her. “I can—” another one, desperate, “come again—”

God. 

The noises she was making—raw, helpless, holy—he actually shivered. 

He would never get enough of that voice and the way it cracked for him. 

“You can,” he panted, breath hot against her spine, forehead pressed between her shoulder blades as he watched the way their bodies met—grinding into her like a man possessed. 

“And you will.”

Because her hips were still chasing his. 

Even when she thought she couldn’t take more, her body begged for it. 

My sweet girl. 

“I’ve got you, you’re okay,” he swore, voice low and grounding. “Just breathe. Let me take you there.” 

His hand that wasn’t holding hers slid between her body and the mattress—drawing her closer, kissing her neck—and then lower, palm trailing down her trembling stomach until he reached the soaked heat of her core.  

His fingers found her clit like that was the only purpose they’d ever had. 

No hesitation. No mercy. Just what she needed. 

“Oh God—” she sobbed, full-body shaking. “Jinu—”

“I know,” he rasped, pressing deep into her as his fingers worked her. “I know, baby. You’re okay. Promise.”

His thrusts slowed—but didn’t stop—as he coaxed her higher, again. Again. 

“Let go, Rumi,” he whispered. 

And that did it. 

Her body jerked violently. The coil snapping inside her like a wire pulled too tight, releasing in one brutal, beautiful, wave. 

Her walls clutched around him like they were trying to pull him in for good—tight, shaking, relentless. Like she was going to snap him in half. 

And the noises she made? God, he could listen to those cries of pleasure for the rest of his eternal fucking life. 

“There you go,” he groaned, praise catching in his throat. “There you go, my good girl.” 

His voice trembled, strained against the edge of his own undoing—because fuck—her body kept spasming under him, arching into him, sobbing his name like it was the only word she knew how to say. 

Jinu. Jinu. Jinu. 

He worked her through it, moving slowly, dragging her orgasm out for as long as she could take.

But then she turned her head. 

Her lips were parted, her lashes damp, and that look in her eyes—soft, wrecked, sure—

Oh God. 

Oh fuck. 

His girl knew what she was doing. 

Her fingers squeezed his, and she pressed back against him, taking him further inside like she was telling him exactly where she wanted it. 

“Come for me,” she whispered. 

And then she kissed him. Sweet and open, meant and deep, and it levelled him. 

His body obeyed before he could protest. Like her plea was law. 

He groaned—rasped and guttural—his restraint finally snapping as her lips sealed over his. 

His hips stuttered, thrusts losing rhythm, falling apart completely as he buried himself deep one last time and came with a sound so raw it felt like something sacred had broken loose in him. 

She squealed, her whole body tensing at the sensation, and when her eyes rolled back—

Fuck. 

He slammed in one more time, had to make sure it was right there, almost angry at the fact that she was on the pill. 

And she sobbed his name. Fingers clutching his. Nails dragging helplessly down his neck. 

Utterly overwhelmed. Utterly overstimulated. Utterly his. 

“You’re okay. You can take it,” he promised, mumbling against her, holding her tighter. “You’re okay.” 

And his sweet girl softened. He felt her trust in the way she opened, met his tongue with her own. In the way her touch slid higher, no longer carving into his skin in desperation. In the way she exhaled, because she knew he wouldn’t do more than she could handle. 

And he couldn’t be prouder. 

He kissed her harder, held her closer, let his release run through them like wildfire. 

And so did she. 

Fuck. 

He swore into her mouth, swallowing the gasps and whimpers escaping her lips as he continued to fill her to the brim, pleasure dragging through him in waves he couldn’t pace—like he was paying the price for holding back so long. 

“God—Rumi,” he choked, forehead dropping to the mattress above her shoulder, voice wrecked beyond repair. 

His whole body trembled, clinging to her like he was afraid he’d fall through the bed if he let go. 

And she held him right back. Lips brushing his cheekbone. Hand still gripping his, the other one in his hair—fingers tangled in the strands like it could tether them both to reality as they caught their breaths.

He counted hers—always did. Tried to inhale when she did. Exhale when she did. Anything to stay in tune to her. 

His mind was still white noise, body aching with the force of it all—every nerve frayed, every muscle humming. He could feel her everywhere. Around him. Under him. Inside him. Still pulsing, still warm, still his. 

And even though he could barely think, every thought he did manage to produce was just her. 

Her touch. 

Her smell. 

Her voice. 

The way she’d looked at him when she said “Come for me,” like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she had no idea he’d literally light himself on fucking fire if she told him to. 

Hell—he’d let her actually walk all over him, as long as she didn’t walk away. 

She knew where she belonged now—yes. She was his—yes. But before all of that… he was hers. 

Had been, for a long time. Completely. Wholly. Devastatingly. 

God. 

He belonged to her so fully he didn’t even know where he ended and she began. Didn’t even want to. 

His nose bumped her cheek, and he let out a shaking breath—still not quite sure if he was going to, or even wanted to, survive this absolute wonder of a woman. 

And then—

Her voice did him in. 

“Holy fuck,” she breathed, wrecked and hoarse, still trembling beneath him. “That was—”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Just let out a low, dazed hum against her cheekbone. Because what was there to say? He had no words. No bones. No grip on reality. She’d taken all of it. 

Rumi chuckled, slurring through a grin, “I should let you massage me more often.”

Another hum. Still no words. He knew if he opened his mouth, he might actually whimper. 

“You’ve never come that hard,” she mused, proud and a little breathless. “I feel like I’m about to burst.” 

Oh fuck. 

“I love it,” she added, a little smug, because of course she knew he’d love to hear it. 

Which he did. 

So much that it short-circuited him. 

Jinu whined. Actually whined. And the menace beneath him laughed at the sound of it—like he was some poor mortal she’d just reduced to ash. 

An outcome he didn’t mind at all. 

He nuzzled closer, burrowed his face into the crook of her neck like he needed shelter, needed to hide from just how ruined she had him. 

“I get off on giving to you, what can I say,” he finally rasped, the words barely audible—cracking as they left him. 

He heard her smile. That soft puff of air through her nose before she buried it in his hair, inhaling like she couldn’t get enough of him either. 

What she said next only confirmed it. 

“So,” she murmured sweetly, fingers trailing along the sensitive skin behind his ear, “when can I get another treatment?” 

He shuddered. Not just from the touch. 

“In five?” he mumbled, barely coherent, his mind redirecting all remaining energy to recovery. To the simple, devastating truth that she wanted him again. 

God, he adored her. Adored the way she needed him like he needed her. 

She laughed once more—giddy, golden, glowing—a little breathless. “I might need ten.”

“You’re getting eight,” he said, voice still wrecked but smug enough to make her pulse jump as he brushed his lips along her jawline. 

She leaned back, just enough for their eyes to meet—all smiles and heavy eyelids and wide pupils. 

The prettiest girl on the planet. 

“Deal,” she whispered before coming closer, finding his mouth again. 

She kissed him, soft and slow. The kind that could last forever. 

All tongue. All warmth. All breath. A kiss that said all the things neither of them had yet to say. 

And he kissed her right back—

Deep at first. Answering what they couldn’t name. What they both already knew. 

Then he shifted. 

Squeezed her hand. 

Brought the other to cradle her neck—fingers tugging gently at her hair.

And he kissed her harder. 

Telling her that their eight minutes had started. That he fully intended to wreck her all over again. 

Because this was a full body massage, after all. 

And he hadn’t had her on her back yet.

Hope you enjoyed! If you liked this and haven’t read my ongoing fic Patterns, I recommend checking it out!

Thank you for reading🫶🏼